


The Devil's in the Next Room

by MnemonicMadness



Category: Evil (TV 2019), Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Demons, Dirty Talk, Emotional Hurt, Gaslighting, M/M, Non-Consensual Kissing, POV John Reese, Pining, Psychological Horror, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Hatred, is non-consensual dirty talk a thing? it's a thing in this fic, probably a little over-tagged but I'd rather be safe than sorry, rated for that because leland townsend, set sometime in the second half of s1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 14:48:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21255104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MnemonicMadness/pseuds/MnemonicMadness
Summary: The earpiece comes to life, and the channel fills with Harold’s voice, prissy and dry. “Maybe you should detonate all that ill-acquired C4 before our number leaves, it would save us both a world of trouble.”There is something wrong about this. Something wrong about the comment itself, but also something wrong about Harold’s voice. Some half-hidden quality in it he can’t reconcile with his reclusive friend. Instinctively, every muscle in him tenses.“Who are you?”Or: Leland Townsend messes with John. Having watched Evil would be an advantage, but not 100% necessary for understanding this fic, I think.





	The Devil's in the Next Room

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IMelopsittacus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IMelopsittacus/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Night Terror](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20978090) by [talkingtothesky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkingtothesky/pseuds/talkingtothesky). 

> For IM, as a little thank you for dragging all of us into Evil.  
Inspired by Sky's usual brilliance, go read her fic if you haven't already, it's amazing!  
Title taken from DEVIL by Shinedown.
> 
> If you haven't watched Evil, Michael Emerson plays Leland Townsend, a psychologist and psychopath-or-actual-demon. For the purpose of this fic, he's a Harold-lookalike demon.  
Not exactly my best work, but I hope you'll enjoy it anyway! Also, fair warning, this is unedited and probably full of mistakes, I'm sorry!

By the time he realises it, he isn’t sure when exactly it happened the first time, only that it has been going on for a while. Long enough that he can remember instances when Harold was still just Finch, his enigmatic employer, to him and he hadn’t known him well enough then just yet, so it’d been more subtle to him. Just sometimes thinking he sees him out of the corner of his eye when it makes no sense for Finch to be there. Just the odd comment every few weeks, usually when John’s in the middle of a fight and distracted by it, barely listening to Finch’s soft voice through the earpiece, the occasional _“Perhaps with this number of assailants, __your charge__ would be safer if you were to aim for centre mass.”_ or _“Are you sure she’s really worth saving?”_ filtered out in between the physical and the more relevant pieces of information.

But even then he could already recognise it as out of character, contradicting everything he’d already known of Finch – even if that’s still less concrete intel and more a sense of who he is as a person – and even more so with every new facet of him he learns about. To still been wary of Finch then is only natural after his time with the agency, but that’s still no excuse for having missed it for so long, and neither is the fact that he wasn’t exactly at his best then, still tempted to let himself make a fatal mistake more often than not. He’s trained for this, he should’ve known.

The earpiece comes to life, and the channel fills with Harold’s voice, prissy and dry. “Maybe you should detonate all that ill-acquired C4 before our number leaves, it would save us both a world of trouble.”

John’s focused on watching the building opposite him, to make sure that no one is inside when he does press the trigger, keeping an eye on a woman walking her dog just on the edge of the radius in which debris might become dangerous. A few months ago he might’ve filtered it out, concentrating on his mission, but it’s now and there haven’t been any of _those_ comments in a while, and it makes him frown instead.

There is something wrong about this. Something wrong about the comment itself, but also something wrong about Harold’s voice. Some half-hidden quality in it he can’t reconcile with his reclusive friend. Instinctively, every muscle in him tenses.

“Who are you?”

A pause.

He doesn’t know what he’s expecting, if he wants for there to be some rational explanation, if he should prepare himself to realise that Harold somehow isn’t the person John thinks he is, if he’s half-waiting for some kind of code phrase to indicate that Harold is being threatened, that the library or their line of communication might be compromised.

The chuckle from the other end of the line has a chill run down his back.

“Took you long enough to figure it out, John.” The voice is still Harold’s, still gentle and sophisticated, but there’s an almost silky quality to it now. Sensual, in a deeply unsettling way.

“Who are you?” he demands again, tension evident, but he figures that much is no surprise to the stranger with Harold’s voice anyway.

“Oh, I would love to chat some more, but I’m afraid duty calls for you. But I promise, you and I will find a chance continue our conversation _very_ soon.”

The earpiece clicks, the call abruptly ended. John hears his own blood rushing in his ears, his breathing is just a little too fast, adrenaline racing through him with no outlet. Before he can settle himself, the earpiece clicks again and he hears Harold’s voice, prim and proper, without a too-smooth undercurrent, just Harold, really Harold, this time.

“Mr Reese? According to the GPS on his phone, our number is on the move. There seems to be a back entrance on the north-western side of the building that wasn’t in the blueprints...”

* * *

He steps back into the library, knuckles bruised and suit covered in dust, hurries through the hallways with large steps and only not running because he doesn’t want to alarm Harold more than he’s already going to.

A wave of relief hits him when he finally sees Harold, sitting at his desk as usual and looking at him with warm concern when he stalks in, but there’s something else too, fear for him, the kind that forms a lump in his throat and has him desperate to reach out and pull Harold close and keep him safe. And distantly, but nagging in a way that won’t let itself be ignored, confusion, afraid in an entirely different way.

A small frown forms between Harold’s brows now and John wants nothing more than to reach out and soothe it away, cradle that precious head in his hands and kiss him until both their worries are gone.

“Is there something the matter?” Harold asks softly, getting up, stepping closer.

John is going to tell him about the man with Harold’s voice on what should be their secure line, one where no one should be able to get through Harold’s version of firewalls.

The lump thickens, the words get stuck, and he feels like a stranger in his own body when he hears himself say “I’m fine, Finch. Just tired.” while his heart begins to race.

* * *

Now that he knows something is going on, he notices him everywhere. Sees a man who looks like Harold out of the very corner of his eye, gone as soon as he tries to look more closely, seeing only strangers, or no one at all. Hears what sounds almost like Harold’s voice, just beyond where he could make out words. The calls continue, never for long, usually without even a single word spoken, just the click of the connection being established, followed by the one signalling it being cut off again. It’s almost making him think he’s finally losing it.

* * *

He dreams of Harold and that is nothing new, usually it’ll make him wake up with a guilty smile and sometimes a case of morning wood that needs taking care of instead of going away on its own.

This time, halfway through, Harold’s smile turns silky and cruel like the voice on the other end of the line that isn’t Harold, and nightmares are nothing new to him either, he’s learned to live with them, but this time, the unsettling feeling it left him with doesn’t fade for the rest of the day.

* * *

Seven days pass, and then he meets him. It’s been a long case, the kind that has him numb with exhaustion, makes him wish he could stay and soak in Harold’s soothing presence, but Harold needs rest just as badly as John himself does, so after giving Harold’s shoulder as long of a gentle squeeze as he dares, he leaves the library. It’s an unseasonably cold evening, but right now he appreciates it, hopes the cold will clear his hear a little until he gets back to the loft Harold gave him.

He meets him in a dark alleyway worryingly close to the library, seeing him from the corner of his eye again at first, but this time, when he turns, the street isn’t empty.

He looks like Harold too, or at least almost. He’s wearing a well-tailored suit as well, but the waistcoat is replaced by a sweater vest like the ones Harold wears only very occasionally and that John secretly adores on him. His hair is the same mousy brows as Harold’s but it’s longer, carefully brushed instead of sticking up in untameable spikes. His glasses are different. He smiles at John, and it’s charming and silky and cruel.

It’s instinct that has John draw his weapon, even if that same instinct is striving against him when he trains the gun on the man with Harold’s face. The stranger looks unimpressed. Keeps smiling.

“Really John, is this the way to greet an old friend?”

“Who are you?” he forces out, torn between the gut feeling telling him to just pull the trigger, and the one telling him the opposite.

“Very well. The name is Leland Townsend. And before you make any attempts on my life, please let me explain why doing so would be very bad for your dear Harold.”

* * *

It’s been over two weeks and so far, Townsend has kept his word, but it doesn’t sit well with John. The man is as elusive as Harold, there and gone, trying to trail him has been futile and he’s unpredictable to boot. He can’t rely on him continuing to stay by his promise, not when it comes to something as important as Harold’s safety.

He should tell him. By every protocol the army and the CIA’s ever had, from any rational angle, he should tell Harold they’ve been compromised, that their methods of communication aren’t safe and neither is the library or John’s loft, and since he doesn’t want to underestimate Townsend, there’s good reason to believe that wherever Harold calls home – he still hasn’t been able to find it and it sends a pulse of anxiety through him whenever they close down the library for the night, because Harold’s good, has to be when John, try as he might, can’t track him, that doesn’t mean no one can’t, doesn’t mean _Townsend_ can’t – isn’t safe either.

So it’s far from the first time that he pulls the car into a parking space about a block away from the library but doesn’t get out right away. The leather of his gloves creaks with how tightly he grips the steering wheel as he tries to convince himself that it’d be safer to tell Harold. That maybe Harold would allow him to stay by his side twenty-four seven, that he’d stop at nothing to keep him safe and that that’d be enough.

It’s not the first time either that he spots sudden movement in the back-seat and looks up at the rear view mirror to find Townsend suddenly there smiling coldly, condescending.

“John.” he admonishes. “Are you forgetting our little deal already? I know you want to tell him, I know it hurts to keep such a secret from someone you love _so much_. But think about everything that could happen, a heart attack, or a car accident, or a stray bullet. Or what might happen if he were to inconveniently fall in the shower, we both know good Harold isn’t the surest on his feet, what with all the nerve damage and the titanium screws holding his spine together, and still it’s so fragile. Or who knows, maybe he’d be grateful, so much responsibility, so much pain he’s in every day. You only need to say the word, John, and I’ll make it all go away. Forever.”

“I swear, if you touch him...” The words slip out impulsively, even though there seems to be nothing he can threaten Townsend with and Townsend knows it, interrupting him with quiet laughter.

“I’ll admit, I’m not overly keen on touching him, that’s more your department, wouldn’t you say? Or maybe I should, seeing as you don’t seem like you’re going to, no matter how much you want to.”

Faint nausea rises in him at the suggestiveness in Townsend’s tone, but he fights not to let it show. He won’t let him have the satisfaction of it. “What do you want from me?”

Townsend just laughs again, and in the space of a blink, his figure is gone from the mirror, leaving only a waft of cold evening air coming through the car’s door behind John before it closes with a click.

* * *

It’s a quiet day in the library, today’s number so easy that neither of them even needed to leave, and John feels almost content in the deceptive safety of it, almost lets himself relax into Harold’s presence and the steady noise of the keyboard. Almost.

“You want him, don’t you?” Townsend murmurs through the earpiece, voice low and seductive and so much like Harold’s, except for all the ways in which it isn’t. “I know you do. Did you think about him this morning when you got off in the shower? I bet you did. I wonder how he’d react if he found out how often you fantasise about him fucking you over his desk. If he’s disgusted by a monster like you wanting him, he’d be too polite to show it, of course. But who knows, maybe he’d give you a go out of pity, hoping it’ll help you get over it. After all, when it comes to more serious relationships, his type is sweet, artistic redheads, and that’s not really you, now, is it? But maybe for a casual, quick fuck...”

He tries not to shift in his seat where he’s been alternating between reading and watching Harold, pretending that none of this is getting to him. Pretending Townsend doesn’t somehow know how exactly to get under his skin. For a few seconds, there is blessed quiet, only soft breathing on the other end of the line. But not long enough, never long enough.

“He looks good like this, doesn’t he? All focused on his work and whatever that genius mind of him is cooking up at the moment, not knowing that he’s letting you shamelessly watch him. I bet he wouldn’t even notice if you got up and walked over to him, maybe not even if you were to reach out and touch him, just a little. Don’t you want to try it, John? Maybe he’d notice, but let you anyway.”

No matter how he tries, he can’t tear his eyes from Harold, still typing away in only a few yards’ distance, no matter how sick it makes him to keep looking at Harold, helpless to want him, while Townsend continues to talk.

“I know you want to get on your knees for him, right over there, where he can be comfortable sitting down. Maybe he’d take a break from his work, maybe he wouldn’t, but you’re not a picky one, are you? So long as he’d just let you touch him, let you run your hands over those thighs of his. He’d be so warm. And that quality of a suit, imagine how soft those slacks are, pulled tight over his thighs when he’s sitting down like that. He’d probably let you take your time opening his fly. What do you think his cock looks like? I bet it’d still be flaccid at first, but once you get him hard, he’ll be the perfect size for you, just enough to fill you to the back of your throat if he’d grip your hair and force you all the way down. Not that he would do that, no matter how much you want him to.”

He wants to rip out his earpiece and grab the hammer from the toolkit in the corner, smash it to pieces. Even if that means Harold will notice, even if that means he’ll have to tell him, like he should have when he first realised Townsend’s existence. But just like he couldn’t then, he can’t now, his limbs won’t cooperate, his eyes are still fixed on Harold even if he doesn’t want them to be, even if they’re starting to sting.

“But maybe he would let you blow him. Let you take his cock into your mouth and feel him there, hot and hard. Let you learn how he likes it, if he prefers it slow, or fast and wet. If he’d like it if you’d tongue his slit, taste all his pre-come you can get while you use your hand for the rest of him. Or if he’d like it better if you take him all the way in, show him all the little tricks you learned for those kind of missions in the CIA. You know he knows all about those, right? He’s read all your files, after all. He watched whatever surveillance footage there is, so he knows how you look with a cock down your throat, or getting fucked. Do you think it aroused, or sickened him? Maybe a bit of both. Just like you, now.”

He hates him for it, for being right. Hates his own body, the way he feels himself grow hard even though nausea is rising in him. It feels like a betrayal, like he’s taking something he has no right to take, sitting here, gaze helplessly fixed on Harold who is still absorbed in his work, entirely oblivious.

“That’s right. But we’re getting off track here. You were thinking about how much you want to suck his dick. How good you’d want to make it for him, you probably wouldn’t even be touching yourself so you can concentrate on pleasuring him, or maybe you'd even get off on that alone. He couldn’t fuck your mouth and use you the way you love it, what with those injuries of his, but maybe he’d grab your hair after all, position you however he wants you, hold you down until you can really imagine what it’d be like to choke on him. And if you’re really good for him, he’ll come in your mouth.”

There is nothing he can do but keep his breath quiet even as it quickens, because if he doesn’t, he feels like it’ll come out as a sob. His eyes sting and water, but no tear escapes even if at this point, he feels like even that’d be a relief. He desperately wants Harold to notice, and at the same time, he desperately doesn’t. He feels sick.

”You’d swallow, of course, I know you’re greedy for him, you’d take whatever you can get and still want more. What do you think he’d look like when he reaches his climax? Would he call out your name? Or maybe he’d close his eyes, and call out _hers_, his little redhead? Or what was his good looking friend’s again, Nathan? But you wouldn’t even care, would you. You’d be happy to let him use you however he wants, no matter who he imagines he’s fucking instead of you, you’d even turn off the lights and be extra quiet just so it’d be easier for him to pretend. You know he’ll never love you back, right?”

* * *

The next day, the next number, he gets a not at all accidental bullet through his phone, and just as not accidentally steps on his earpiece. He returns to the library and greets Harold with a sheepish smile, gets a look in return – exasperated, but also fond enough to make him sick all over again.

Yesterday, once he’d gotten home, he jerked himself off, thinking about getting his mouth on Harold, because whatever he tried, even when trying not to think at all, that’s what his thoughts circled back on. The rest of the evening he spent over the toilet, puking his guts out.

Harold hands him a new earpiece and phone. “Please, do try not to shoot it this time.” It’s still fond, but his eyes are full of worry.

John smiles, hoping to reassure him “Thank you.”

The first thing he hears when he puts the earpiece in is Townsend’s cold laughter.

* * *

Townsend corners him in the alley where John first saw him, pressing him into the dirty façade with unexpected strength and presses his lips to John’s. And John freezes like he hasn’t since the first days of basic training, wanting to push him away, to fight, to hurt, but he can’t. He even smells almost like Harold, tastes like he could imagine Harold tasting, like tea and take-out, and then the spell is broken.

John doesn’t think, doesn’t need to, his fist finds Townsend’s solar plexus with unerring accuracy and the smaller man stumbles away, backwards until he his back is against the opposite building. He’s folded over, rubbing the area where John hit him, but there’s no pain on his face and after the briefest, almost fake-sounding groan there’s only condescending laughter.

“Are you sure, John? You know this is the closest you’ll ever get to knowing what it would be like to be with him.”

* * *

“I know you thought about it only yesterday. How his fingers would feel inside of you, instead of your own. How careful he would be in preparing you, he wouldn’t want to hurt you after all, even if you aren’t anywhere close to as important to him as he is to you. How he’d push inside, slowly, ignoring you when you beg him to go faster, fuck you harder. How much would it hurt, do you think, if he were to take you slow enough that it’d almost feel like he’s making love to you? I have to admit, I doubt I’d have that kind of patience...”

“Is that what this is about? Is that you want?”

“What? To fuck you? Oh John, you’d actually let me, wouldn’t you. If that’s the price I’d ask you to pay to keep him safe, you’d let me take you whenever I want, until I get sick of you, wouldn’t you? But no, John. That’s not what I want.”

* * *

This case has taken a lot out of them both. Harold tried to send John home hours ago, but John can’t make himself leave and so Harold doesn’t make him either. Instead, he’s in their kitchenette, making the reclusive genius yet another cup of tea. When he returns, it’s to find said genius passed out on the desk, asleep.

John wrestles with himself for a moment. He knows sleeping like this is hell for Harold’s neck and if he lets him, he’ll be in even more pain than usual all day tomorrow, but on the other hand, he knows Harold will wake up as soon as he tries to move him, he’s tried before, and the chances to get Harold to actually take a break and go to sleep on a suitable surface are slim to none. A compromise then, he’ll let him nap for a quarter of an hour, which is hopefully short enough to prevent the pain from setting in. A little sleep is better than none, and afterwards, he can still try to make Harold see reason.

The thought of Harold in the short, vulnerable moments after John gently wakes him in situations like this makes him smile as he turns towards the adjacent room, intending to get a blanket for him. The smile falls off his face when he sees the by now too familiar figure of Townsend, half-hidden in the shadows of the doorway.

It’s worse than seeing him suddenly in the backseat of his car, worse than having him suggest to kill through the earpiece while he is out on a case, worse than having him spell out fantasies that fill him with nauseated shame while he sits in a room with an oblivious Harold. He has known this from the beginning, he never forgot that the library is compromised, but to actually see Townsend here, in their sanctuary, is harrowing in an entirely different way.

His body moves on its own to shield Harold and less than a second passes before his gun is trained towards Townsend’s head. His thumb finds the safety, his index finger the trigger and he pulls it and nothing happens.

It rests against the trigger and moves no further, as if his hand isn’t his own.

Townsend steps closer until he can settle his hand on top of John’s, pushes his and the gun down and there is nothing he can do to resist.

“Now now, we wouldn’t want to wake poor Harold. He does seem pretty exhausted. Were you getting him a blanket? How sweet. Don’t let me stop you, I can watch over him until you’re back?”

He should have told him. He should have told him as soon as he knew about Townsend. Why didn’t he?

“Harold?” he tries to shout in hopes of waking him, but all that comes out is a hoarse whisper.

Townsend tuts at him.

“Don’t. I’m only here to remind you that I am capable of things you cannot even imagine. There’s nothing you can do to keep him safe if...”

He doesn’t think about it, and maybe that’s the key. His finger moves, pulls the trigger down, and where he aims the shot wouldn’t be immediately fatal, but it would find Townsend’s abdomen and cause at least a severe injury. The gun, one he keeps well-maintained and loaded, clicks, as if the fresh magazine he put in it only an hour ago is empty.

Townsend frowns, his full attention fixed on John now, making an involuntary shiver run down his spine as every warning bell he has from all his years of training and field experience goes off, but at least that means he’s not looking at Harold now.

“You are in way over your head, John.” he tells him, not silky and sensual for once, but cold and dangerous and cruel. And he turns and leaves, and after the second it takes John to get himself to move and try to give chase, the hallways he disappeared into is empty.

* * *

“Let me stay with you, Harold. Please. Your place, mine, some hotel, doesn’t matter.” He ignores how that sounds as he begs him, tries not to imagine Townsend’s voice commenting on how much he wants Harold, how pathetically he loves him, not that any of that is important right now.

All that matters is that Harold finally nods, no trace of sleep or exhaustion left in his intelligent eyes, only worry. “Alright, John. Are you going to tell me what this is about? You know, whatever it is… Whatever I can do to help you, please let me know.”

He wants to. He doesn’t know if he can or if he’ll lose control of himself and end up no more able to tell Harold about Townsend than he was to pull the trigger at first. But he’ll try, he should have told Harold right away and he’ll try, and if he can’t, he’ll find a way to leave enough clues that Harold’ll figure it out on his own. He hopes. Hopes he can, hopes it won’t turn out to be a mistake.

“I’ll try. I just need to be with you, to keep you safe. Just for a little while.”

The worry doesn’t fade, but Harold still smiles reassuringly, meets John’s eyes with affection. “Of course. I know I can be… somewhat unsociable at times, but I hope you do know that I trust you, and I care deeply for you, John. And I quite enjoy your company, so indulging it will be far from a hardship, however long you think it’s best.”

John swallows. “Harold, if something were to happen to you, I...”

“Nothing will. I know I’ll be as safe as I can be with you.” Harold interrupts with a certainty John doesn’t think is deserved, not when faced with Townsend.

But he nods anyway, and when they turn to leave and he winds his arm around Harold’s waist and pulls him close, Harold lets him. They leave both their earpieces and phones behind.

* * *

There is a shadow in the alleyway not far from the library, he sees it from the corner of his eye and knows it’ll be gone if he really looks. A chill runs down his spine, cold, like Townsend’s laugh.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween and thank you so much for reading! Trick the author into posting more things by treating them to a comment? :D (Yes, yes, I know, that was a terrible joke but I stand by it.)


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